The Red Sox Bear Us Away To Winter

It's over. 162 games. The Postseason. The World Series. It has ended gloriously for us Red Sox fans. Our second World Series in 4 years. An absolute and unequivocal drubbing of the Rockies to win the World Series. And two mornings removed, the smile not yet wiped away from my face, it still remains over.

I watched the game. Every pitch. Every hit. Every inane comment from McCarver and Buck. It wasn't riveting, it was affirming. I knew we had a good team, a great team. Young and talented in some corners, experienced and unrelenting in others. Scrappy and emotional in the field, quiet and graceful at the plate. Never have I been so impressed with my Red Sox. Sure 2004 was outstanding, a beyond-words-cornucopia of glory and emotion. But 2007 was stunning. A knock you to your knees awe-inspiring season. There were rough moments, but you expect those with anything that takes perseverance. There were few come-from-behind wins this year, more content to take the lead and never surrender it games. I can honestly say there were never any doubts. When you see a team this good, this powerful and dominating, they leave little room for doubts.

Since 2004, the ominous and foreboding feeling has gone. I read that 2004 was an exorcism, 2007 was an exercise in domination. I tend to agree. This was a very good baseball team. And almost as exciting, this will be a very good baseball team next year.

I watched us emerge victorious in Game 4 in the same manner and means I watched us win Game 7 of the ALCS. Isaac was awakened and seated in my lap, my legs crossed underneath me, his draped over them. His stiff little back holding his alert head upright braced against my chest. Faced forward, eyes open, both of us watching the Red Sox win. I told the Mrs. last night I swear he knew something was going on. Occasionally he would look up at me, bright blue eyes reflecting the green fields of my childhood imaginations of World Series victories. Those eyes would stare into mine, then turn to the T.V. for a moment, before meeting my eyes again. He may have been saying nothing, just taking note of the two animate things in the living room at midnight. But in my mind he understood. Not what was going on, only that something was going on. So we watched. Cheered. Called family. And we, together, father and son, won the World Series.

For the 2007 season I watched the games. Never sure what was happening in the larger sense, only that something was happening. This was a good baseball team and a lot of fun to watch. Now that we've won, I'm still not sure I can put winning the World Series into words. Twice in a lifetime!", that was the headline on ESPN yesterday featuring an animated, wide-eyed, wearied and enthralled Papelbon. That's about right. Twice in my lifetime the Red Sox have won the World Series. The Red Sox have won the World Series twice. Never gets old, always bears repeating.

For all the celebration, the quiet moments of joy with my son seated in my lap, I am sad this morning. Baseball, my pastime, my favorite sport, is over for the winter. It will be a short winter though. And a warm one, images of Papelbons and Pedrioas dancing in my head. Of Manny's and Papi's and Jacoby's bringing smiles to my face. But baseball is over for another year.

But it was a year in which the Red Sox have won the World Series. And that's only happened twice in my lifetime.

The Modern Prometheus

If you're familiar with the stuff of myth, the stuff of fantastic stories and tales, perhaps you'd be acquainted with the ancients conception of how fire was brought to man. Prometheus concealed the conflagration in his cloak, thieved from the heavens, and bestowed it to man. Interesting to note in this story that fire was the stuff of heaven. That it is not man's, not originally present on earth to the Greeks. I mean, there are no stories of a man named Chuck thieving water in the folds of his shirt, or Larry holding air in his wallet as he crept out of heaven. It's fire that's the stuff of heaven. God made the bush burn, not rain, when he chose to speak to Moses. Fire is the stuff of heaven.

So there are the 2007 Red Sox. A team that stands on the doorstep of Olympus today. The sights are beautiful. Fire burns from every building. Several people roam the streets consumed by it. Others toss it back and forth on the streets of Olympus. The Red Sox must now get in, steal it (free Tacos for all too!) and bring it to us fans. It is no small task. It has been no small feat for them to get to even the doorstep. Climbing the mountain this season, they have emerged a victor. A modern Prometheus. I'm sure there was a reason mankind elected Prometheus and not a man named Bobo to commit holy larceny. The Red Sox are Prometheus. The Rockies are clearly Bobo.

Yes, I'm aware of the parallels in this idea. That the Rockies play on a mountain. But mostly I am intent on expressing to you, that on this crisp October morning that the idea of a World Series win resembling the bringing of fire to man is most apt. It is. Seriously. Cold October. Warm fire. I'm not stretching anything here. I'm not...

Tonight, We Steal the Fire of the gods.

We Win The World Series.

Chaos Theory: Winning The Pennant

I have this talent of being able to put myself anywhere. To close my eyes and imagine I'm surrounded by a completely different type of environment. I use it most when I am writing and reading. Trying to get into the pre-WWII England. Going on a safari in the shadows of Mt. Kilimanjaro. In these times I feel certain things about where ever I've gone, smell others, hear still more. And last night, days, weeks and years from now I will remember. Remember exactly where I was and what I was doing.

You see the celebration. You see Coco make the gutsiest catch I've ever seen. You see the Little Man do the big thing. You see moments that stretch across this culture to another. You witness it all from the most historical boundaries in baseball. For some, being at Fenway last night -- or wanting to be at Fenway -- was the greatest of experiences. But not for me.

I sat uncomfortably in my ironic easy chair for much of the game. When the time called for it I sat frozen. Unwilling to upset some balance. Unwilling to be the butterfly that caused the typhoon. Ah, the chaos theory of postseason baseball. But when the moment arrived, I changed seats. Opting for the recliner. And I brought along a companion for the remaining three outs, the final stretch, the light coming around the bend.

With all the lights out, the game at a moderate level, I went and got my son up. Pulling him from his crib, blanket and all, he joined me in the recliner. Quickly he woke up. Quietly too. Like something was happening. Sometimes being awakened disrupts and disturbs him. But not in this case. He sat on my lap, eyes forward and tired, staring at the television. And we sat there, moving only to the floor seconds before the final out. Quietly we watched. Quietly I cheered. Silently I held him and we watched. I told him this doesn't happen much, if ever. I told him one day I'll be able to tell him he saw it happen, even if doesn't recall or remember. I told him, whispered into his ear, his eyes fixed on the television, sitting silently in my arms, I told him the Red Sox were going to the World Series.

And I'm sure it was said louder and crazier in some spots of New England. I'm sure in Boston it was bellowed from rooftops and alleys. I'm sure sitting there at Fenway you couldn't hear anything else. But it wasn't said any better. In our home in the capital of Ohio, in a neighborhood either asleep or stunned, it was said simply. And it was understood.

That's baseball. As simple as it is complex. Enjoyed in screaming masses and understood in the words of a father to a son on a quiet night.

The Red Sox are going to the World Series.

Residents of Mudville

So that's how I feel today. Like a resident of some imaginary town in a children's poem.

"Upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat"

But with Beckett going tomorrow night...

"A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast"

For when the dust lifts....

Getting You There From Here

For aesthetic reasons I've decided to do some "live" blogging at a new blog I've just created. You can get there from here. This way I don't clog up this site. But also, I really like the name of the new site: Crackerjacks and Peanuts. There are more reasons as well, but you'll have to head over there to read them.

Enjoy tonight's game, I'll begin blogging over there right around the time of the first pitch.

Crackerjacks and Peanuts

Not Peanuts And Crackerjacks

Now we have Midge Masks. Before there were Rally Monkeys, ThunderSticks and Rally Paddles. Now there's Midge Masks? I have respect for Indians fans. Good fans. Love the game. Are extremely passionate in that un-irritable sense. But Midge Masks? I now am no longer in fear of the Indians.

Why must sports franchises do this? Why must they bastardize a game I love? A game I know intimately and as profusely as the expression involving the back of one's hand. It's as bad as putting "Cheer Now" messages on the JumboTron. It was bad when the Red Sox introduced Wally The Wall Monster. Glorious when fans subsequently booed him. No JumboTron message needed then.

Give me peanuts and crackerjacks. Give me the home team in it's final at bat in a close game. Give me the chance to score a run or prevent a runner from scoring. Give me a great pitching performance, a base hit or a run-scoring grounder to short. I'm cheering. You don't need to tell me. Don't need to mask it with some prop. It is what it is. And it's great. If you can't get into that, well, then, baseball is not for you.

But alas it is. So we'll see fans with Midge Masks tonight. But I don't care if they ever come back. Give me a Red Sox win.

NOTE: I'm going to attempt to "live blog" during the game. I'm not sure why though. Seems like it could be fun. So tune in around game time.

EDIT: Semi-related to the post. It's pretty cool. A good Christmas present for Isaac grandparents!

Why I Love October

Alright. I'm going to be the "blogger". I'm going to post immediately. Vowing to not let my thoughts settle.

What a great night of baseball -- thanks in large part to TBS HD finally settling with DISH Network. I'll admit, I had the Indians-Yankees game on over the start of the Red Sox game (though I did have the radio broadcast coming through the computer so as to not be totally in the dark). Give much credit amongst yourselves, readers, to the Indians. That's a good, good ball club. By the way, Yankees, OFF doesn't work on insects other than mosquitoes. And that was a fantastic game.

But Manny steals the show. Gets the game ball. Is the Your-Name-Here-Because-We-Paid-Advertising-Money-To-Have-It-Here Player of the Game. It was an atrocious pitch by K-Rod. Missed location badly. Missed everything, even the ballpark by the time that thing landed.

And that's baseball in October, all apologies to the 'great' Dane Cook here. Every mistake magnified. Every bug. Every pitch. It's all in play. It all means everything. You can't mess up. You can't let up. You can't make it up tomorrow. All you can do is win.

It's late. Pushing 1am. And. It. Is. October.

I Love My Red Sox

October Nights

So I like that idea. The one about Bible-black October nights. About the cold and bound silences of a now early evening darkness. Of the unseen and barely perceptible stirring of a leaf loosed from its moorings. Every noise and silence and motion is different. Nature is preparing for what's coming. For when, it is unsure, but the hatches are being battened down. And a chill sweeps over the land. We are mostly unaware, moved on by the perpetual kinetic energy in our own lives. But October is a cosmic catalyst for a new season. It is the thunderstorm of seasons. The hot summer nights colliding with the cool winter breezes. Some days and nights, the summer wins; it is the winter that emerges victorious. And in the Bible-black cover of night, we feel it most deeply, most religiously.

Now I realize it's a juxtaposition of ideas. A mixing, or, rather, a misuse of metaphor, but October is the perfect month for the baseball playoffs. Of silence and shouts; of loosed screams of joy and, if we're fortunate enough, a Felix Culpa. Every pitch means something different. Every cut fastball, called third strike, ground ball to third, double to right. It's all different. It's all for something that's coming. That's just around the next corner. Victory is sweet. I have tasted it. Felt it cool down my scream-torn throat. Basked in it's warmth, overcome by it's chilling reality: victory.

So listen for that imperceptible sign. That noise or silence that brings it all down in a rush. We will fight sleep and our kinetic lives to sit in quiet on cool couches in warm breezes on these cataclysmic nights. These Bible-black October nights.

May we not go silently into these good nights.

Because It's Oh So Close

For The Home Team

If you didn't grow up a sports fan, it's tough to understand the mindset, the obsession, the unparalleled devotion one can have towards a certain team. Questions on the efficacy of "rooting" for and espousing a collective "we" attitude towards a team seem inane. Obviously, you didn't hit the homerun or catch the pass or bury the jumper. But there's a misapprehension there. No one ever said we did those things. I don't believe I did those things, literally or figuratively. But my team did, our team did. And understanding the idea of a team is crucial towards this "sports fan" attitude.

I'm a Red Sox fan. We're a whole different psychological study. For 162 days and nights from April to September, I live and breathe the Red Sox. Follow the box scores. Question pitching changes, pitches themselves, the idea behind swinging with a 3-0 count and read countless articles filled with inane drivel about my team. I know a great deal about the Red Sox, and I don't even live in Boston. If I did, it would be much, much worse.

But back to this collective "we" in regards to rooting for the home team. The idea behind a team is a group of players pointed towards a goal of achieving some significant accomplishment within their respective sport. For the Royals, and let's be honest, it's not losing 100 games. For the Red Sox, it's winning the World Series. Where the "we" comes in is that we want the team to reach this goal. We share the same end. So we follow our team, extolling the decisions in the win and letting go vitriols in the loss. In this we become a part of the make-up of the team, in a very small sense, an honorary member. We may not be hitting or catching or scoring, but we're rooting for all of it. And that gives us a stake in it -- a dog in the fight. We devote a proportional amount of time and support -- sometimes too much-- and so we have every right to exclaim "we" won.

There's more to being a part of a team than being physically on the team. If you've ever lived in Boston, or spent a decent amount of time there, it's fascinating to watch how much the city -- for good or for bad-- hinges on the fate of the Sox. It hovers over every conversation, news of the team fills every sports page and radio broadcast. The city is the team and the team is the city. We do, unfortunately, a little more than "root, root, root" -- we obsess. But that's neither here nor there to this discussion.

A few weeks ago Ohio State opened their season against some awful team. I went out to grab a bite to eat near the stadium just around kickoff. There was a palpable excitement. Even in the people bringing groceries to their car, you could see it their eyes. It reminded me of Boston. A lot. Of course, CFB fans are stupid because achieving the ultimate goal never rests fully in their team's performance on the field. But I can at least sympathize and come alongside them in their passion -- however foolishly unfounded it is.

But I digress. Back to my point: Go Red Sox.

September And The Denouement

I've many times alluded to how baseball plays itself out like a good novel. And if you know my love and passion for the Red Sox, you'll note I consider them to play out like a Tolstoy novel. The season runs its course every year, winding through spring showers (sometimes filled with snow) to muggy nights of ball in May and June, to sweltering dog days of July and August. But it always runs its course to September -- the mouth of the entire season (sorry for mixing metaphors).

And here we are. The ninth month named for something in French that means seven has arrived. To continue a literature analogy, this would be the denouement. Only, there's no falling action in baseball. The entire season's been building like musicians tuning their instruments. Now, the symphony begins. The characters and plots and sub-plots and settings will converge and collide. Here is the action. Here is the cusp, the apex, the pinnacle, the paramount for the paramours of baseball.

We sit 7 games up in the East. But we are not at rest. Not idle. Not in our denouement. September is here. But it is not time for fall. It is time for the authors of this fantastic season to write the ending. And we, the viewers, listeners, readers, canoers (going back to the river analogy) are here. Perched on the edges of our seats, at the end of each day, waiting for the action to play out. For Pedroia and Buck, for Schill and Coco, for Beckett and Papi and Paps and Manny all to take us out and up and away from the chilling month. To take us out to a ball game. A September ball game.

Phew. I feel like James Earl Jones.

I Blame Myself

I have everything to do with this funk the Red Sox are in. It's all my fault. For the first time all season I have failed to watch a game in the past two weeks. And in the past two weeks they have faltered. It is utterly my fault.

But in my defense, I've been busy with life. With moving, working and school -- but mainly moving. So I've not been able to catch any games. I apologize and must admit I don't see my ways amending anytime soon so I hope they can pull themselves out of this funk, lest I have to pull a Tiger Town. Seems like last night was a good start.

And on the subject of sports, something near and dear to me, did anyone catch the NBA Finals? I watch it only out of obligation to those who no longer play. For Larry, Magic, MJ. And the Spurs looked great. They're a good basketball team. The Cavs looked terrible. Is there a more inept coach than Mike Brown? I think he's still confused over why running a high pick for LeBron didn't work when the man picking was defended by Tim Duncan. Really, I think he's just confused. Clearly he didn't know how to coach a basketball team. What a miserable Finals. I think I might watch an old Celtics game on DVD to inspire my love for the game again.

Also, it's the weekend of the U.S. Open. One of my favorite golf tournaments. Immaculate courses that are ridiculously difficult. Nothing better than a round over par. At least I can relate to the the golfers in this tournament.

Otherwise it's a been an incredibly trying week. Very little sleep. And you know you're tired when you find yourself switching from Bob Dylan's "Stuck In The Middle With You" to Fergie's "Big Girls Don't Cry" and singing seamlessly between the two.

I think I'll go to Boston...

Superstitions

Those of you who know me, know that I can be a superstitious person. Especially when it comes to my beloved Red Sox -- or really any New England team that's making a run. For the Patriots, I have only one t-shirt. And that t-shirt gets buried at the bottom of my drawer each season. I don't even so much as touch it or even entertain the thought that it is there.

I went into full superstition mode yesterday during Curt Shilling's no-hit bid. Catching only the latter half of the game, I was shocked when the end-of-the-inning scoreboard came up 0 0 1. I turned to the Mrs. sitting with Isaac.

"You know that I'm superstitious about baseball, right?"

Only a look of sarcasm.

"Well, there are some instances during a particular game where it behooves a person to not say anything regarding a certain something during that game."

I didn't use the word "behoove". Though, in a conversation yesterday, I did work in the word diffidence.

"Yes," she replied.

"So if you should see something on the scoreboard and that should elicit a question or two, please don't ask them until later."

Again, didn't use the word elicit.

She consented and we managed to talk around the actual no-hit bid while both eagerly hoping to see one.

I have never seen a no-hitter start to finish. Neither had she. Though her first EVER baseball game she watched, a September match-up between the Red Sox and Yankees in '01, featured Mike Mussina within one-hit of a PERFECT GAME. I had never seen that either. And only with two-strikes on Carl Everett did I begin to root for the feat. Everett broke it up. The only good thing he did with the Sox.

It didn't happen for Schill yesterday. And I was crushed when Stewart broke it up. But I appreciated how the announcers for the Sox acknowledged the 'mentioning-the-no-hitter-jinx' which many announcers find dubious. Though, usually when they begin to discuss their highfalutin view of the dubiousness, the no-hitter proceeds to get broken up. I can count at least two-dozen times I've seen this happen. Anyway, props to Remy and Orsillo for talking around it.

There are some things you just don't talk about during a baseball game. Some things you just don't mention. Some things that are just too glorious that you feel too selfish to even hope for: a five-run rally in the ninth, a perfect game or no-hitter, 4 Home Runs in a game, a game-winning hit. These are things every time you turn on a baseball game you just hope for with everything you got. You pull a Tiger Town.

And sometimes talking about the hope lessens the hope. Puts it in the context of the present reality and makes it seem foolish. Hope is a foolish, foolish thing.

But without it....

On Leaving Early

Inspired by a post on a blog I've occasioned, I was reminded about a story I once wrote. Of course it involves baseball. All my stories involve baseball. Also, it's a particularly good time to write about baseball as the Red Sox are playing some outstanding baseball right now.

Remember my first ever 'live blog'? Well, if you get through it you get to the point where we attend the Red Sox game in the pouring rain (and also what humorous events happened to us at the game which were even funnier in lieu of everything that happened that horrible, no good, very bad day). One of the things I love about my wife is she gets me. Completely and, sometimes, inconceivably. Despite the rain, despite the events of the day, she did not once consider or broach the idea that we should leave the game early. And more than that -- and this is why I love her -- she did not want to leave the game early.

You don't leave a baseball game early. Especially if it's the Red Sox. Especially if it's at Fenway. It is my belief that those people, and there are many of you who choose to leave, for good or for lame reasons, a baseball game before the final out, are the same sort of people who would leave church in the middle of the altar call (Been reading Faulkner, sorry about that sentence).

The altar call is the whole point (usually, but it doesn't have to be) of the sermon and church on the whole. Staying for the final out is the whole point of going to a game. Only then is the final outcome determined. Only then is the victor the victor and the loser the loser. And that's what you go to games for. For one team to win and another to lose. Sure, things may not change between the time you leave your seat and that final out. But the whole point is that they can change and so you need to stay.

My brother and some friends once attended a Red Sox game at Fenway. It was a few years ago and it was a night game in the middle of the summer. Well, like any fan going to a game's dream, it went into extra innings. Around the 14th they made an announcement that the last train was leaving at a certain time readily approaching. That train would have taken them across the city to where they had parked. Sara, one of the friends at the game, as street savvy as she is in Boston, said she knew how to walk the two dozen city blocks so they could stay. They put it to a vote. It was unanimous. They stayed.

In the bottom of the 18th the Red Sox won it on a Shea Hillenbrand home run. And they walked back. He still tells that story.

What story can you tell if you left early.

It's Not An Excuse...But...

I know it's been almost a week. I've been busy. The Mrs. and I made an offer on a house last night. A charming 4 BR/2BTH Cape Cod in the Grove City (commonly referred to around these parts as Grove-Tucky) area of Columbus (on the southwest side). Obviously we like the house. There's not much more to say about it. Here's to hoping we get it; I fear it may turn into a bidding war as we are up against another buyer.

The Kid is growing at an above average rate. Over 10lbs and 22 inches as of yesterday. He's also got a "social smile" at one one month. He smiles when he hears his Mother and my voice. And I can also make him laugh. At this point, honestly, that may be my greatest accomplishment in life. He's also made his first trip on a plane. To Florida with his Mom to visit his Aunt and Uncle. And was he ever ready to go.

Also, if there's anyone looking for a good book, I recommend the latest Oprah selection and, as it stands, also the latest Pulitzer Prize winner for Fiction: The Road by Cormac McCarthy. Not the most difficult or thought-provoking novel. But it reads quick and the writing's superb. A cross between Children of Men and A Steinbeck novel.

Finally, tonight it all begins. Red Sox. Yankees. Fenway. Here's what I had to say at this time last year. It's Baseball's opening line. Baseball's First Words. Baseball's epitaph.

On Opening Day

Yesterday was the day I had looked forward to since last July. Not only because it was Opening Day, but because it was my first Opening Day with my son. Growing up we always celebrated Opening Day as a family. Either we got out of school early, or we raced home to see the game (one time I snuck head phones into a last period Communication class to listen to the game against the Twins. The game the Sox won on an Opening Day walk off grand slam). It was a holiday at our house. Complete with everything you'd find at the ballpark: hot dogs, soda, ice cream sandwiches, Italian sausages.

I've carried on that tradition since I moved out of the house. Yesterday: hot dogs, soda, mac & cheese (which I think they probably serve at stadiums now). I have every intention of keeping the tradition intact (unlike the naming of first sons and second sons in my family. Sorry Grandpa). Even the Mrs. was excited she'd be home in time to see the game when I told her the start time changed.

Baseball is a good thing.

Anyway, it wasn't a particularly good game. A 7-1 loss to the Royals. The Royals. Whatever. But even the youngest member of Red Sox Nation knows it's a long season, so there's no reason to get worked up.


Me, however, I'd be lying if I said this picture didn't get me a little worked up.

EDITORS NOTE: THIS IS HIS SECOND RED SOX OUTFIT OF THE DAY. THERE WAS AN INCIDENT WITH HIM AND HIS FIRST OUTFIT.

The Mourning After

How do I write about my despair. How do I put into words this abject sadness that fights to consume me over this cup of coffee. For most of last night and as I awoke this morning, I thought of all the plays we could have run differently. How Reche could've caught the ball. How if Evans had broken a tackle and scampered inside the 20 with 24 seconds to play. If Brady had gone to the sidelines instead of over the middle. How a non-pass interference call on Reche and a bogus roughing-the-passer call on Banta-Cain could have sealed it for us (Seriously. I hit my dog harder than Tulla hit Peyton. Not saying we would've of stopped them, but that type of a call cannot be made in those situations. Also, how is that the announcers mentioned it only once? It was arguably the biggest play of the game getting the Colts to the 11 instead of the at the 20?).

Then it occurs to me...all this "we" stuff. It's not like I had any control over what was happening. Despite not shaving, despite wearing the same clothes every Sunday through the playoffs, despite eating only certain foods, there was nothing I could have done to control the outcome of the game. Of course, this realization lead to complete helplessness for a short-time. Why is it that sports fans put themselves through it? I have no answers, not this morning. On October 28, 2004 I had answers for you. On February 3, 2002 I had answers for you. This morning, I have nothing.

On the morning after the Mets won the '86 World Series, I remember it was my mother who told me as I woke up and scurried into the kitchen. I remember the same feeling then, as a six-year-old, that I have now. Then, as a baseball player, I pondered in my head whether I should want to play for the Mets when I got older -- because they were the champs. Then it occurred to me that I couldn't do that because the Red Sox needed me.

Do the Patriots need me? Probably not. Though I've got pretty good hands. They don't need me in any physical, emotional or metaphysical sense. I don't have those delusions. What I've surmised is that being a sports fan is like riding a roller coaster. There's the waiting in line, anticipation as the cars climb to the top, and then the up-and-down-topsy-turvy ride to the end. Sometimes the end is less than satisfying. Sometimes it's over at just the right moment. Either way, you usually enjoy the ride and want to do it again.

I enjoyed the ride. And I want to do it again. Also, don't misunderstand me either, this entry is not cathartic in any way. I'm still upset. But in anticipation of next year's ride, maybe I should lay off the ice cream and chips.

A Long Night

So the Mrs. thinks I'm crazy. Which, at this point in the pregnancy, is that whole pot-kettle conversation. I admit to being slightly eccentric. Last night I read an entire book -- start to finish. I wrapped it up a few minutes before the Mrs. returned from work around 1:30am. And it wasn't a particularly good book. But it was worth the time I put into it.

The book was, again, by Nick Hornby called "A Long Way Down". For some reason I enjoy Hornby. Like I said, it wasn't a great book but I enjoyed it. It's about four people who plan to "top" themselves off on New Year's Eve but circumstance has it that they meet up. It's a dark subject but he and his characters handle it deftly -- and there are some fantastic characters.

He's a good writer, Hornby. Very good with dialogue. But the book was more akin to a Red Sox-Yankees game in mid-April. It's something you get geared up for and thoroughly enjoy but in September, you've all but forgotten about the game and how you felt about it. In fact, at that point, it's more like an dispositional belief. In other words, a year or so from now, I'll probably need to be reminded I've read it.

Perhaps because I was afraid I wouldn't finish it if I put it down ("Finishing a book proves nothing!" sayeth George Constanza). Perhaps it actually was good. Fact of the matter is I was up until 1:30am reading the 300+ pages I began at around 6:30pm (I took a two-hour break for must see TV Thursday -- I'm actually an efficient reader. Heck I've finished two books this week! I felt I needed to defend myself). The last time I did this was exactly a year ago -- with Jane Austen's "Pride and Prejudice" (maybe one of my all-time favorite books -- top 10 at least). Back then, the Mrs. thought I was crazy, too.

The thing of it is: maybe I'm the only one this happens to but I actually got an adrenaline rush to finish it. Maybe I am crazy.

Anyway -- High Fidelity is next. Like I said, I'm enjoying Nick Hornby.

On Obsessions

So I've recently picked up a book that I'm rather enjoying. And mind you it's not a book I have to read for any class or application to any master's program -- I'm reading it for fun. Anyway, more of you are probably familiar with the movie, but I assure you the movie pales in comparison. Not that the book is fantastic, but the movie was terrible.

I haven't done as many film reviews as I wanted to in this space. And I won't review this movie. I will only say that it bastardized a very special moment in my life -- that the third thing I saw when the ineffable happened was two hollywoodland lunatics celebrating with my team. It still invokes ire from me so I'll stop here. And I'm not mentioning the title, figure it out yourself.

Well, the book is much more my cup o' tea. It's about a man's obsession with a English soccer team (Arsenal if you're interested). It's funny. It captures exactly what it's like to be an obsessive sports fan. Wait -- you didn't know I was an obsessive? Well let me share some evidence that will greatly alter your opinion of me.

During the '04 MLB playoffs, I was heart broken. Crushed after the 19-8 drubbing that Saturday night (incidently, what lifted my spirits was Damien Rice on Austin City Limits, an artist I now have this inextricable bond with because of what followed). Co-workers tried to console me but they knew better. The next game, they won. In the most dramatic fashion imaginable. But in that 9th inning, I decided that if the Sox were going to lose, I'd at least want to hear Jerry and Joe tell me, not idiot Joe Buck. So I put the game on the Internet and listened and I still have trouble believing it. I mean, everyone knew he was going to steal second, and he still did. Anyway they went on to win. For the next few nights, the game, while also on my tv, was also on my computer, a full 30 seconds behind (sorry, who has attention problems?). Also, I sat in the exact same spot on the couch. I wore the exact same clothes. So did the Mrs.. Funny thing, I didn't even ask her to, she just did out of her own passion for the Sox. You know what, they went on to win it all -- so don't you judge me.

For the Patriots, it's a much different story -- but perhaps it's more appropo right now considering yesterday dismantling in Foxboro (what a great game!). Since the 96-97 Superbowl season, I've refrained from wearing any Patriots gear during the regular season, though I've got plenty of it. The only time that year it happened was when my father (I'm taking money back for this mention) decided our superstitions were foolish and wore a Patriots jersey -- revealing it to us dramatically at half-time from underneath his shirt. We lost that game. Anyway, since then, I've carried on that superstition despite several bad seasons and despite losses. For the Sox, once they lose, I change my approach. For the Patriots, the games are a different animal I suppose my technique is also different. And as far as not wearing Patriots gear, it extends to burying shirts in drawers and hats in boxes -- I don't want to even see or touch any of it during the season. But I can talk about it -- again, something that doesn't work for the Red Sox.

There are more to these obsessions with Boston-area sports teams. But you get the idea.

My poor kid right?